


Butterfly Collectors

by uumuu



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Father/Son Incest, InShipping Treat, Lack of Communication, M/M, Rough Sex, Twisted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-04-19 08:57:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4740473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They both pursued chimeras.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Butterfly Collectors

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amyfortuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [蝴蝶春梦](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5032015) by [shadowoftheday654321](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowoftheday654321/pseuds/shadowoftheday654321)



> Also fills the rough sex square in my Season of Kink card.

Every time he drove into his father's body, even centuries after the first time he had done it, even with all the anger and frustration, he couldn't help heave a rapt sigh at how perfect it felt.

He didn't know when or how it had begun. Sometimes, he thought it was part of his nature, something he had inherited alongside his father-name, his face, his talent. 

He recalled a humdrum afternoon of so many centuries before, the crystallised relic of a vanished world – him, as a timid but eager adolescent, staring unblinkingly at his father as he hammered a red-hot blade on the anvil. He clearly remembered the exact rhythm of the strokes, the direction in which each of the sparks had flown from the metal, fireworks to celebrate his own private jubilation. 

Such moments had been the only ones he could have his father all to himself, without his grandfather or his mother in the way. It didn't matter that more often than not his father didn't even notice him standing a few feet from him, so immersed he was in his work, or threw him a cursory glance at best. He treasured every single one of those moments, fashioning them into an object of worship in his heart, and in the gloom of his own room, far from the blurry red glow of the furnace, he plucked them again one by one, spilling his own seed to endearments his father had never uttered to him.

That particular afternoon his father had been in a cheerful mood, and they had taken a bath together after the blade had been polished. He had rubbed his hands across his father's tight shoulders and back, luxuriating in the warmth and smoothness of his skin, and barely restraining a devouring impulse to lick it and leave his mark on it. 

Years after that evening, across an ocean of grief, his mother and grandfather had died – both died, together. They were both gone. Gone. Gone gone gone. He couldn't have imagined a sweeter word. For a while he rejoiced, for the exact time it took him to realise that neither Fëanáro nor Héruminyë were gone, not entirely, because when he held his weeping father it was their names he called, in pitiful sobs that rent his heart not only for their candour (his father would never mourn _him_ like that, his father would very likely not mourn him at all), but for how they accused him for his stupidity, his inadequacy, and his pettiness, too.

Still the fact remained that his father had only him now, the sole remnant of his most cherished, most reverently beloved. 

He had kissed away his father's tears, with all the tenderness he had to give, finally held him in the flesh. His father's spirit might still hanker for those who were no more, but his body was there in his arms and joined to his own. 

He had thought he could make the spirit follow. He had been constantly at his side, assisted him in all his researches (they had come so close to finding a way to win, before dragon's fire set all ablaze), protected him in battle, but even after losing Himlad, his father could not be wrested from his purpose, from that objective which – it was clear to him – was now irremediably out of reach. In Nargothrond, he kept cleaving to him, clinging to his body, but with no hope left. It maddened him, that his father still valued ghosts more than him.

“Why don't you give up,” he hissed, sliding easily in and out, in a frantic rhythm. “Why do you persist! What do you think you can achieve now?”

“My Tyelperinquar,” his father said in a gasp, refusing – as he ever did – to acknowledge what he had just said.

“I'm not _yours_ -” he rasped out, hating himself for how feeble and indecisive his voice sounded, when what he truly wanted to say was something else (you have to be _mine_ ).

He started to pound into his father, viciously, like he wouldn't have with the lowliest servant, but so long as his father didn't protest, he gave free rein to his resentment-encrusted love. His father didn't. His father whimpered, and called his name again. His father wrapped himself arms and legs around him, trapping him. _My Tyelperinquar_ , he repeated, _my treasure, my hope_. 

He felt as if he were choking. A trickle of sweat ran down the side of his head. He would have wanted to wipe it away, but his hands were the last support he had. His body slid and shoved against and into his father's. The slapping sounds echoed in his ears, his father's breath was warm against his temple, susurrating all those endearments he had always wanted to hear. 

He knew, he knew he should have withdrawn from his father's body, gathered his clothes and fled that room, never gone back to him again. He looked over his shoulder instead, and his eyes fell on the round table that was the only other piece of furniture in the cold damp room deep in the caves, apart from a mangy clothes chest. 

He broke free of his father's hold, using all the strength years of work in the forge had built up, and pulled him up by means of his hair, trying not to look at his glazed eyes, determined not to face the ghosts he knew he would find in them. He dragged him to the table, yanking him when he stumbled, and tossed him towards it.

His father groaned as his chest collided painfully against the unforgiving stone. 

He pushed his legs apart, exposing his hole, puffy and gaping after hours of use, _his_ use. The re-entry was punctuated by a poignant, almost desperate moan, and he couldn't have told if it was his father's or his own – or both's. He buried himself to the hilt, and it was still so so perfect. His father wanted nothing more than to suck him in. 

He lost track of time afer that. He only knew his father came when he felt him convulse under the hand that crushed his neck to the table. He continued to thrust, but it brought him no closer to release, and at length he stopped moving out of sheer exhaustion. His father took over then, moving in his stead, massaging his cock, and he discharged his seed deep into him. 

He pulled out and took two, three steps back, wobbling so badly that he had to steady himself by extending a hand towards the wall. His father slid to the floor, himself sagged of all strength. The spots where he had gripped and clawed at him had begun to stand out against his sheeny skin. Angry red of scratches, and purple for bruises that proclaimed him a weakling.

His father crawled on his knees to him, wrapped his arms around his legs and started crying.

He knew it was false (it had to be). His father did it because he knew his son couldn't resist, not after what he had just done. What _they_ had just done. What his father had let him do. (What he had always wanted to do since he had been old enough to think of sex). His father knew him well, and he predictably picked him up and carried him back to the bed, where he held him until they both fell asleep, huddled together. 

Months later, he kept wishing his father would have wept after he told him he would not go with him, because then he would have followed him, and would not have finally fathomed the abyss of longing his father had faced, bent under its crushing weight as he dragged it behind him, like a mantle pinned to his heart.

But that too, he reckoned, was part of his inheritance.


End file.
